


Just You

by mariana_oconnor



Series: The Wolves of Timely [2]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Because apparently that is a thing in this universe, But only discussed, Erotic Archery, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Possessive Bucky Barnes, References to Exhibitionism and Public Sex, Werewolf Bucky Barnes, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:47:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariana_oconnor/pseuds/mariana_oconnor
Summary: The carnival is gone, Clint knows the secrets of Timely and Bucky knows Clint's secrets too. It should be the perfect happy ending, but Clint feels like he's on borrowed time and Bucky keeps running off into the woods.In which Clint talks to everyone except Bucky and receives some interesting information about werewolf relationships, while Bucky tries to be a gentleman and fails miserably.A Timestamp to Lost & Found, set after the carnival has gone, but before the Timely Summer Fayre.





	Just You

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [drgrlfriend](http://drgrlfriend.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for betaing this for me and for many lovely comments - and the title, because no one wants a fic called _DTR or DTF?_ You're wonderful, thank you!
> 
> Also, if you haven't read [Lost & Found](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230097), then you're probably going to be quite confused by what the hell is happening in this fic. I would definitely recommend reading that first.

Now that Bucky’s human again and on his way to being himself, Clint feels like he can have a look around. There’s a strange feeling to being in Bucky’s space without his express permission. Sure, he’d seemed pleased to see him when he woke up, but he was recovering from whatever they’d stuck in him.

It’s not like he can close his eyes and walk around blind, though. He’d end up falling down the stairs and breaking his neck or something. No one else seems bothered that he’s here, even if he does feel like he’s trespassing inside Bucky’s head. Steve is still hanging around, and Natasha’s outside, in her fox form, patrolling like she’s a border guard, and they only seem worried about people outside coming in, not what he’s doing inside.

Well, he says he can have a look around, what he really means is he desperately needs to take a piss.

As he emerges from Bucky’s room, he could swear that he doesn’t make a sound, but Steve looks up directly at him, as if his head moves automatically. Perhaps it’s the scent thing. Whatever it is, it’s weird. He’s going to have to think about that. Having people who always know where you are? Clint’s used to being able to sneak, it’s been an important part of his life since he was a kid. The idea that people can always find him. It gives him a moment of sheer, irrational fear that skids up his spine.

He shakes it off. These are good people, he’s definitely established that. They’re not going to… it’s not going to be like that. It hasn’t been like that.

Instead, he turns his attention away from Steve, who has turned away again, seemingly unconcerned about Clint prowling around his best friend’s home.

And it is a home, in a way Clint can barely remember ever knowing. His house as a kid, with his parents, had probably seemed pretty cosy, if you were on the outside looking in, but there had always been the tension hanging over it. Even on the good days, there was the knowledge that things could change in a heartbeat. The wrong word, the wrong move…

And then the circus. That had been home, his half of the caravan, stuffed and messy as it was, but it had been invaded almost daily, there had been little security there. This place, though, this place has built up its security over time. It feels shut away and preserved against the rest of the world. Clint feels like he can breathe here.

The cabin is homey, the sort of place that you see in TV or in a movie. Clint didn’t know places like this existed, with their warm wooden walls and the comfortable disarray of things, not so much clutter that it stifles, but enough to soften the edges and file off the corners. The living room stretches out lazily, taking up half the ground floor and it’s mostly double height, so Clint can look out from the hallway - more of a balcony really - and directly down into it. Below him, leaning back casually, like he probably has a hundred or more times before, Steve is sitting on the sofa drawing something in a sketchpad. Apparently the Sheriff likes to draw. Clint adds that to his hodge-podge view of life in Timely, and it fits in easily, strange, but unsurprising.

Steve looks up again, raising an eyebrow, probably at Clint’s hesitation, but the smile he gives is encouraging. Clint’s pretty sure that the Sheriff hasn’t quite forgiven him for the lying yet. He’s not sure he ever will, and he’s more than ready to have an in-depth shovel talk - just as soon as he’s managed to empty his protesting bladder.

“Bathroom?” he mouths, aware of Bucky, snoring softly, in the room behind him. Steve lifts a finger to point at a door further down the landing. Clint nods his thanks and heads straight for it.

There is nothing about this place that screams ‘Bucky’ to him. If he had been asked, he would have said that there would be barely anything in Bucky’s home except the bare essentials. But there are trinkets and geegaws all over the place. It feels less like the house of one man, and more like a family home.

After he washes his hands and emerges, Steve gestures for him to join him downstairs. Clint steels himself, but he doesn’t feel ready to disobey just yet. He’s indebted, and he’s going to try not to piss people off more than he already has.

Here it comes.

Clint tries not to feel like he’s walking to the gallows as he heads downwards - after all, that would have meant going up the steps, not down them - but he can’t quite silence the voice in his head that says he’s in for it now. Bucky’s fixed, the Sheriff no longer needs Clint to calm his friend now. This is going to be the moment. In an attempt to distract himself, he looks around some more, and feels his steps slow as he catches sight of the pictures. All down the stairs there are single frames, and those big ones with the windows in for a dozen or so. It’s a family photo album stuck up on the wall.

Clint can pick out Bucky immediately: a gap-toothed child, a beaming toddler, a sleeping baby. Bucky holding a smaller baby in his arms, with one arm round the shoulders of a smaller, blond boy, both with matching mischievous grins. A small girl with curly dark hair hugging a dark-furred puppy, its tail wagging so fast it’s just a blur.

And later pictures too, a teenager in a leather jacket, trying to look cool. Young Steve and young Bucky in suits, looking uncomfortable. Bucky as a wolf, again, running through the woods. Bucky as he must have been right at the end of his teens, cocky and beautiful, looking like he’s got the whole world figured out. Clint wants to reach out and touch his smile, ruffle his hair.

It’s Bucky’s life in pictures, and with him, in the background, are others, a woman and a man who must be his parents, the little girl, who grows up as Clint descends the stairs, who must be his sister - the one who moved away, with the kids.

Clint remembers the photos when he was a child, having to smile. Sometimes it was a good day and the smiles were genuine, sometimes it was a not-so-good day and then the yelling would start. Why couldn’t he just smile like the other children? How did his father raise such a broken child?

None of the smiles on the wall seem forced. Not like that. There’s always something in the eyes of the people in them that makes it seem like they like each other.

Clint bites the inside of his lip as he finally comes to the bottom step and turns his head around to look Sheriff Rogers right in the eye.

The expression he sees is not the one he was expecting. Steve looks fond, and he isn’t even looking at Clint, he’s looking past him, at the wall.

“This was his parents’ house,” the Sheriff says. “He hasn’t changed it much. I think he’s worried that they’d be angry at him.”

Clint pauses, because this is a strange start to the conversation they’re going to be having. He squints at Steve, trying to work out what’s going on. But, since the town turned out to be a pack of werewolves, he’s not sure that he’s ever going to get a grip on things.

“Would they?” Clint asks. Steve frowns slightly and looks at him properly, one of those weird assessing looks that people in Timely keep giving him, like he’s said something revealing when Clint can’t understand why.

“Why would they?” Steve asks. “It’s his house now. His parents would want him to make it his own, not live in a mausoleum. I keep telling him that he should redecorate, but he always changes the subject.” He shrugs. “Hopefully, he’ll be able to bring himself to do it now.”

“Uh…” Clint says, because he really doesn’t understand what that’s supposed to mean. “Right. I guess.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, for lack of anything better to do with them. What are you even supposed to do with hands? What does he usually do with them? Do they usually just hang there all useless down by his sides?

“You can sit down,” Steve says, nodding to the sofa. It looks comfortable and lived in, just like the rest of this place.

“What happened to them?” Clint asks, looking around the place. Steve shakes his head.

“They got ill,” he says. “They didn’t get better.” He shakes his head. “It was while Bucky was… while he was away.”

Clint nods. The conversation lapses again. He wishes that Steve would just get it over with, give him his marching orders, tell him that he’s not good enough for Bucky and throw him out.

Instead, they sit in silence for a long moment. Clint can’t hear Bucky snoring from down here, but he bets that Steve can. Werewolves have good hearing, right? He wonders how many things people in Timely have overheard that he hadn’t realised.

“He’s going to be a surly bastard when he wakes up properly,” Steve says. “He always is. You should have seen him after he got his leg caught in that trap. Terrible patient. Drives everyone up the wall. You’ll have to keep an eye on him.”

“Right,” Clint says, bewildered. “But… you’re…”

“I should get back home. Tony’s probably rewired the place by now…” Steve gives a fond sigh. “He gets twitchy sometimes and what happened the other day - it won’t have helped. He’ll be coming up with all sorts of security measures he’ll want me to implement. ‘For the good of the pack.’” 

“You want me to stay here?” Clint says slowly. Steve looks at him, head cocked to one side and Clint has a sudden flashback to Captain - Tony’s dog. Who was never Tony’s dog at all, was he? He was Steve. Well, that’s a rabbit hole Clint does not want to fall down. Tony’s constant state of amusement makes a lot more sense now, though.

“I thought you were planning to stay here,” Steve says, frowning. “You said before - you told Bucky…”

“Yeah, but I…” Clint pauses. “You really don’t mind?”

“I told you I didn’t,” Steve tells him. “You don’t believe me?”

“In my experience, what people say and what people mean aren’t exactly the same thing,” Clint tells him slowly. “I mean, he’s your best friend. I’m… a homeless criminal who almost got your… pack killed. I figured that you were being polite.” Steve’s face softens to something more understanding, like another piece of the Clint puzzle has slipped into place. It’s an unsettling look, like Steve somehow understands more about Clint than Clint understands about himself.

“I’m not known for being polite,” Steve says with a wry grin. “I give respect to people I respect and everyone else - well, Natasha says I’m as subtle as a brick to the face.” Clint grins at that, it’s strange to have something in common with a sheriff, but he guesses that Steve’s just a person, too… a wolf person, but wolf people are people people, or something. Steve’s still talking though.  
“I knew you’d be sticking around from the moment you walked into town.” Steve grins with the same mischievous grin that Clint had seen on the wall. “And I knew you’d be staying with Bucky since I saw you together that day on the porch.”

“You did?” Clint gapes openly. How could he have known? Clint didn’t even know about the wolf thing, then. Clint had actually left the town. If it hadn’t been for Bucky, he wouldn’t have returned at all. Probably be buried in a shallow grave outside of town.

“Bucky doesn’t let people stroke him… or he hasn’t, not in years.” Steve shrugs. “He was affectionate when he was a pup, playful even, but in the last few years, he’s kept himself separate.” Clint opens his mouth to protest, because the little he knows about what happened to Bucky, a little change in attitude seems barely important. But Steve cuts him off before he can speak. “I know, I get why, I just always hoped that he’d… relearn that, I suppose. And now that there’s you.”

“Now that there’s me…” Clint says slowly. This is starting to feel like something bigger than he’d thought. Bigger than a million stolen dollars. Bigger than werewolves and the carnival trying to kill him. Bigger than he’s ready for. Clint doesn’t really do commitment. He looks at it longingly through the shop window, but it’s never been something he had the option of.

“Yeah, I mean, finding your mate, it’s a big thing for-” Steve begins, like Clint’s supposed to know what he’s talking about.

“Mate,” Clint says slowly, drawing the word out, as if it’s going to change halfway through, as though there’s some secret hiding between the a and the t that’s going to solve this whole thing for him. “I think… Uh… Sheriff, I think I may have missed something.” Steve’s got this little furrow between his eyes that’s starting to look a bit painful. Clint has that effect on people. This is turning out just great.

“Bucky didn’t mention it,” Steve says after a moment, sighing a little, his face falling minutely, as though he’s lost just a little bit of that optimism.

“Between being an unconscious wolf and being an unconscious human?” Clint asks. “No, I don’t think he found the time.” Steve has the good sense to look a bit abashed and he shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat.

It’s the first time Clint’s seen him discomfited and it’s weirdly satisfying at the same time as it is horrifying. Horrifying because Clint is bringing these people down to his level. He knew this would happen.

“So… mate?” Clint adds. You can’t just start a sentence like that and then not finish it. Clint’s already starting about half a mile behind everyone else with this werewolf stuff, he needs a little help to catch up. 

Steve opens his mouth half a dozen times, then closes it again, his eyes shifting up to the door of Bucky’s room and over to the window, to the garden, where Nat’s red fox shape can be seen stalking, still on guard.

“I think you need to talk about that with Bucky,” Steve says, which is a massive cop-out.

“Right,” Clint says. “The way you said it, it sounded sort of… special.”

“You really need to talk about this with Bucky,” Steve tells him. “And I should be going.” He stands up quickly and heads for the door. Clint doesn’t try to stop him, isn’t sure he could move if he tried. He just stares at Steve’s retreating back and wonders how much about werewolves he needs to know. It’s starting to feel like he’s stumbled into a world where all the unwritten rules are different, but everyone assumes he knows them already. Great. He’s spent his entire life trying to follow other people’s rules and just when he’s almost got the hang of it, someone throws them out the window and brings in a whole new set.

He’s still sitting in the same spot when Natasha comes in - as a fox. At least, he assumes it’s Natasha. There might be multiple werefoxes out there. Hell, it might just be a normal fox. He might have just let a random fox into Bucky’s house. That would probably not be good guest etiquette.

But she emerges from the backroom fully dressed and unruffled. Definitely Natasha. How is he ever going to be able to identify her from any other fox?

“I thought you were playing watchdog,” he says as she lowers herself into the same chair Steve was sitting in.

“Sam came to relieve me,” she says, eyeing him with a sharp gaze. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Clint says, too fast. The word bursts out automatically, an automatic response, trained from birth, almost. There is never anything wrong, except everything. He shrugs, knowing that she sees right through him. Natasha sighs, world weary, and rolls her eyes.

“You were fine earlier. You coped with the fact that we all turn into animals without twitching an eyebrow, now you’re all… fidgety again. What did Steve say?”

“First,” Clint says, “you weren’t there when I actually found out about the whole turning into animals thing, so let me assure you I freaked out, a lot. Although I was also freaking out about probably dying at the time, and Bucky maybe being dead, so I had other more important freakouts taking priority. Second, I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Natasha tells him. She crosses one of her legs over the other and waggles her bare toes in his direction. “What did Steve say to upset you?”

There’s no point in trying to hide it from her, Clint supposes, and he needs to talk to someone about this mess.

“He… he called me Bucky’s mate.”

The confusion falls from her face, replaced with an ‘oh’ of understanding. Clint’s glad someone understands.

Natasha mutters something under her breath that sounds vaguely insulting and shakes her head.

“Steve needs to learn when to leave things alone,” she says. “He is always trying to help.” She gives Clint a shrewd look and leans forwards, propping one arm on her knee so her fingers dangle down. “You’re scared.”

“I think if any of you were going to tear me limb from limb, you probably would have done it already,” Clint says, winning a slight smirk.

“True, but it’s not us you’re scared of,” she says. “You’re scared of commitment.”

“No I’m not,” Clint says, watching her eyes narrow.

“It’s a lot of pressure, Steve never realises how much weight he puts on people’s shoulders,” she says, leaning back again, her shoulders slumping, a little tired, like she’s been carrying her own weight on them. “It’s not a bad thing, but he does always believe the impossible.” She pauses, looking back at Clint. “But then it turns out it’s not impossible, after all.

“Everyone thought Bucky was dead,” she says, without warning, like a punch to the face. “Everyone said he was gone. His parents didn’t want to believe it. His sister didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to believe it, but Steve was the only person who actively believed it wasn’t true.”

“I don’t see what this has got to do with me,” Clint says.

“Steve was right,” she says. “He wasn’t dead. And Steve made sure he stayed that way. So what this has to do with you is this: Steve believes in you, and he believes you can do this.”

“He thinks I’m going to somehow fix Bucky,” Clint says. “Bucky doesn’t need fixing.”

“That’s not what he thinks,” Natasha says. “Bucky doesn’t need fixing. He’s different from how he was, but he’s not broken. Steve thinks you’re going to make Bucky happier. He thinks that you’re up to that task.”

“And you think that’s impossible,” Clint asks, raising an eyebrow at her, because that was her exact phrasing and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t throw that back in her face. She smirks.

“No. You think it’s impossible,” she retaliates. “But Steve doesn’t, and he’s usually right about these things. Infuriating, but right.”

“Bucky and I haven’t even been on a date,” Clint says, “and now he’s saying we’re mates.”

“Yes,” Natasha says. “When you think about it like that it might sound a little excessive.”

“How should I think about it, then?” Clint asks. Natasha just shrugs.

“Maybe think about one day at a time. Today, for example, do you want to leave?”

“No,” Clint says after a moment’s thought. She smiles, a soft, quiet sort of smile, that seems more pleased than he would have thought.

“Then don’t leave. And tomorrow, think about it again and make the decision again.” Clint holds her eyes. He can see the fox in them now that he knows, and he can see her in the fox, thinking back. “None of the decisions you make are ever permanent, even though they may have consequences. The important things are the ones you have to keep choosing again and again and again.”

Clint thinks about that for a moment. He’s not sure what she means exactly, but he thinks he gets the sentiment. He wants to be with Bucky today, so that’s what he should do. Tomorrow is tomorrow’s problem. It’s the same way he’s lived his whole life, really.

Natasha stays until Bucky wakes up, not that Clint hears him. Natasha just cocks her head to one side, listening. If she were in her fox form, Clint bets her ears would have pricked up. Then she stands up and leans over to kiss him lightly on the forehead.

“Go keep him company,” she says. “And don’t worry so much. The future will happen. Today is your problem.”

“Thanks,” Clint says, and he means it, even though it sounds like he doesn’t.

She leaves as he’s going upstairs and he opens the door to Bucky’s room to see the man swinging himself out of bed. His problem indeed.

*

It’s not like they suddenly fall into each other’s arms. Because the word mate is still there, hanging between them. Clint doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t want to ask, because asking makes it real. Doesn’t want to break this thing that he can almost feel between them by finding out he can’t handle it. Doesn’t want to force Bucky to define something that maybe he doesn’t want to define.

So Clint plays nursemaid more than lover, even in those moments when they’re just that bit too close, when Bucky’s eyes snag on his and the heat sort of builds between them. He makes sure Bucky is fed and watered and tries to remember when his mother and Barney used to do things like this for him. Hiding their kindnesses in the moments when his father wouldn’t see.

Bucky isn’t seriously injured, it’s more the weakness as the drugs - whatever that stuff they pumped him full of was - leave his body. So it’s barely two days before he’s back on his feet and getting his own glasses of water.

They are hovering in this strange twilight zone, where neither of them mentions the tension between them, always a few feet apart, though never too far, like they’re connected by an invisible string. Clint is worried Bucky’s going to fall and hurt himself, Bucky just seems to want to stay close.

Clint misses his big black wolf a bit. Misses the rhythmic thwack thwack of a wagging tail against his legs. Is that creepy? But Bucky as a wolf is more affectionate than Bucky as a person; Clint wants to feel some sort of contact.

“I’ve made the spare room up,” Bucky says, abruptly, coming down to where Clint is watching the TV in the living room. “So you don’t have to stay with me.”

“Great,” Clint says, trying not to feel stung by the dismissal. It makes sense, of course it does. He said it himself: they haven’t even been on a date yet. Of course Bucky doesn’t need him there anymore. He’s recovered. He’s no longer snarling at the slightest provocation. They’re not technically together, no matter what they sort of agreed to. It makes sense. This is fine. “Do you want me to go back to the guesthouse?” he asks.

“No!” Bucky says, quick and abrupt. Clint’s shoulders relax just a bit. “I just… it’s so you can have your own space.”

“Right,” Clint agrees. “That’s good. Thanks.” His own space. The same thing he would usually be thrilled about. He’s never really had that, apart from at the guesthouse. But now he’s being offered it and it feels a bit like a slap in the face. Not that Clint has earned anything else.

The spare room is beautifully decorated and the bed is comfortable, but the sudden lack of warmth at his side is disconcerting, and the window’s on the wrong side, and it doesn’t smell of Bucky. It’s just… he doesn’t get much sleep.

The next day, Bucky spends most of it in his wolf shape. Clint wonders if this is some sort of reclamation, or if it’s just so he doesn’t have to talk. Clint wouldn’t blame him either way, but it’s kind of lonely having no one to actually talk to, and even worse because even as a wolf, Bucky’s keeping his distance.

Clint’s searching the cabinets for something to eat, stumbling around the kitchen, his hair every which way, stretching up to get something from the top shelf, when he hears the front door slam closed. He sticks his head out just in time to see black fur disappearing into the woods.

Great.

Alone in a cabin in the woods. This is pretty much how every horror movie ever starts, right?

Bucky doesn’t come back that night.

The next morning, Bucky’s already awake when Clint staggers into the kitchen, wearing only his boxer shorts and scratching at his chest. He looks up, his eyes running over Clint’s chest slowly, crawling up to his face. Clint hopes these boxers don’t have holes in, at least. They probably do.

In his hand, Bucky’s holding out a cup of coffee and he offers it out.

“I thought you might need this,” he says, a bit gruffly.

“Mmm yes,” Clint says. “Hot guy with coffee. Best wake-up call.” It’s too early for him to censor what he’s saying, and he sees the small, pleased smile on Bucky’s face. “Uh… thanks,” Clint adds quickly.

“No problem,” Bucky says with a shrug. “You told me once you needed at least three cups to function.”

“I did?” Clint asks, because he doesn’t remember telling anyone that. But he had, hadn’t he? He had told the wolf. And the wolf was - is - Bucky, so he told Bucky. “Oh, right, when you were furry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. He glares at the ground. “Look… I really am sorry about that,” he says.

“About what?” Clint asks.

“Spying on you,” Bucky says. “Lying to you about who I was.”

“It’s not like you could have just come out and said ‘by the way, that wolf who’s been hanging around with you, that’s me’,” Clint says, shrugging.

“But I shouldn’t have-”

“I liked the company,” Clint says quickly. “You’re good company.” Bucky laughs a little harshly. “You are. When you aren’t trying to glare me to death. I thought you were going to kill me when I walked into the bar the first night. I thought you’d bury me out in the woods where no one would find me.”

Bucky makes a strange noise, almost a whine, quickly cut off and Clint looks at him curiously.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “It’s… I’m still a bit close to the change.” At Clint’s raised eyebrow he flushes a bit, which makes Clint smile. “Right… you don’t… Instincts,” he says, like that one word explains everything. “Just maybe don’t talk about you… dying.”

“Too soon,” Clint says.

“Not sure never would be far enough away,” he says, shaking his head. He draws in a deep breath through his nose. “You don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I’m not scared of you,” Clint says, but Bucky doesn’t look convinced.

“But you are scared,” Bucky says. Clint feels his back straighten.

“I’m not scared.”

“Not right now - now you’re offended,” Bucky’s lip quirks, almost a smile, but he contains it. “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, but you smell scared. I didn’t mean to hurt your pride. If you were a wolf you’d be all puffed up. It’s...” His smile fades as he trails off, falling into something more serious, a little bit vulnerable.

Oh, right… werewolves. Clint grimaces.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way you can turn your magic super nose off?” His voice is perhaps a bit more savage than he intended, but as superpowers go, it’s kind of creepy. Bucky takes a step back, withdrawing.

“Not really,” Bucky says. “Kind of part of the package.”

Clint’s shoulders slump, because he doesn’t need a werewolf nose to know that he’s upset Bucky somehow. This was way simpler when he didn’t know that the wolf and the man were the same person.

“Right, sorry,” he says, his voice small and distant. He turns around and feels the tension across his shoulders. Ugh. He must have slept funny. He sets his coffee down.

He stretches them out, pulling his arms over his head, right up and then leaning down to touch his toes. When he turns back, shoulders feeling looser, Bucky is gone, though his coffee is still steaming on the table.

*

Clint doesn’t know what to do in the cabin. He feels a bit weird about leaving. Steve asked him to keep an eye on Bucky, and sure, he’s not exactly doing well at that right now, but if he leaves the cabin then he’s definitely fucked it up. Also, he doesn’t want to just… ditch Bucky. The idea of Bucky coming back to this place full of memories and finding that Clint is just gone makes him feel sort of wobbly on the inside. It’s not a nice feeling, so he doesn’t pursue the thought.

He watches some kids’ TV, full of bright colours and happy songs, but his mind switches off and he starts to stalk the floors, desperate for something to do. He’s living on Bucky’s dime now, he’s got to make himself useful. People who aren’t useful don’t get to stick around. You’ve got to pull your weight.

He stalks back to the windows, looking out for the familiar dark shape of Bucky in wolf-form, but sees only the slender red body of Natasha’s fox, looking back at him before running off.

So she’s watching him, not Bucky. Good to know. It makes him feel better, strangely. He can’t tell if it’s the feeling of having someone looking out for him, or the way the world has settled a bit more into its proper place. Someone keeping an eye on him.

He steps back and something under his feet creaks. He looks down.

Finally, something he can do. Relief floods through him.

There’s an old toolbox under the sink, filled to the brim with all sorts of tools. It doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while, though, not if the cobwebs are anything to go by.

There is a moment, right after he rolls up the rug and before he gets down to the actual work, that he wonders whether this is a good idea.

But that’s never stopped him before.

*

When Sam finds Clint half covered in sawdust, sucking out a splinter from his thumb, his eyebrows shoot up to his hairline.

“Right,” he says. “I sort of thought you’d be relaxing after the whole ‘almost murdered by criminals’ thing, but I guess not.”

“I’ve had worse,” Clint says, giving his brightest smile. Strangely it doesn’t get a response beyond a furrowing of Sam’s brow. “What’s up? Bucky’s not in right now, but I can take a message.”

“Like I’d want to see Barnes’ ugly mug,” Sam says, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m here to drop you off some stuff.” He hefts a bag from outside the door - a few bags actually. “There’s a few things from the guesthouse - you left a lot of stuff behind, I think you must have packed too quickly - and I grabbed your stuff from the carnival before we left. Thought you might want it.”

Clint recognises his bow bag immediately, and stands up, brushing down his hands.

“Thanks,” he says. “That’s great, I…”

He wasn’t aware, until this moment, just how off balance he’s been. But seeing the familiar bag brings it all crashing in around him. He swallows a couple of times.

“You want some coffee?” Clint asks, suddenly desperate for the taste of it. Sam looks at him again, then nods.

“I could do with some caffeine,” he agrees. “I’ll grab the cups.”

Sam has clearly been here before, knows his way around the kitchen, and they sit at the kitchen table, on the slightly wobbly chairs (Clint makes a note) and sip at their drinks. Well, Sam sips, Clint downs his like he was dying of thirst; that’s the only proper way to drink coffee. And Clint should know, he’s drunk enough.

They have done this before, dozens of times, but that was in a different kitchen, under different circumstances, even if the splinter in Clint’s thumb is kind of familiar.

Sam doesn’t speak, just seems content to sit there and sip, but every sip feels a little like judgement. Clint knows it’s not true, but his brain is flying all over the place. He can’t pin it down so he just blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

“What does ‘mate’ mean… for werewolves?” Clint asks. Sam takes another slow sip, then sets his cup down on the table, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans back to take Clint in.

“Bucky hasn’t told you?”

“Bucky hasn’t said a goddamn thing. Steve let it slip the other day. Refused to tell me anything else.”

“And now you’re freaking out,” Sam says. It’s not even a question, he can see Clint is freaking out. He can probably smell it too with the freaky werewolf nose thing going on.

“I’m not freaking out.”

“You’re literally pulling up the floorboards,” Sam says with a significant look over Clint’s shoulder into the living room. Clint hates that Sam is right. “Remind me to thank Steve for leaving me in the middle of this mess, okay?” The look on his face - resigned and a bit weary - implies this is not the first time Steve has left him answering questions he’d prefer not to.

“Sure. You’re going to tell me what’s going on?” Clint asks.

“I’ll try,” Sam sighs and looks down at the table. “First off, you need to know two things. One, I wasn’t born a shifter. Two, I’m not a wolf-shifter. So everything I know, is stuff I’ve figured out myself from my time here, or from other people telling me.”

“You’re not a wolf?” Clint asks, blinking rapidly. He’d known that Natasha was a fox, and Wanda and Pietro turned out to be coyotes or something, but he’d assumed… Well, he really shouldn’t have assumed anything considering he clearly knows fuckall about any of this. “What are you?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Sam says with a wicked smirk. “I’d show you, but Barnes would get all mopey if I seduced you with my amazing shape-shifting powers.”

“Pretty sure I can withstand your charm,” Clint responds, shaking his head. “I’ve managed so far.” Sam grins a bit wider.

“My shift is just that awesome,” he says. “But, getting serious for a second. Rob- Clint… Man, it’s weird calling you that. This whole thing about ‘mates’, don’t let it scare you off.”

“So it’s important, then?” Clint asks.

“Yes and no,” Sam frowns, his mouth twisting awkwardly. “It’s not important yet. It’s not what you think it is. Well… it is.” He sighs. “Maybe if you told me what you think it is?”

“Some sort of weird werewolf bonding thing?” Clint says.

“Then I guess it is what you think it is,” Sam says with a laugh. “Think of it like shifter marriage.”

“Right,” Clint says.

“So it’s more of a far off thing, you date a bit, you hang out, you get to know each other and maybe, if you’re both down with it, you decide to become Mates, with a capital M.”

“Are there rings?”

“It’s more a biting thing, wolves are weird,” Sam says, shaking his head. “You’ve seen the bite mark Tony has on his neck?”

“The scar?” Clint asks.

“Yeah, that’s his bond mark. Most people don’t wear them so openly these days, the neck is traditional though. I’m not sure whether they ended up with that because Steve’s a bit traditional at heart or because Tony’s just that much of an exhibitionist. But yeah, they’re mates.”

“But that’s not what it sounded like when Steve was talking about it,” Clint says. “It sounded more like it was already decided.”

“Yeah, that’s a different part of it. I’m not the best person to be telling you about this, because I don’t get it really. Apparently it’s a wolf thing. Natasha says it’s silly, but… Werewolves can smell people, right?”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “Can you?”

“Sort of, not really…” Sam waves a hand. “I have other talents. Well, werewolves can smell potential mates.”

“And that’s what Bucky smells on me?” Clint asks. Sam nods.

“Emphasis on the potential,” he adds, just to be clear. “There’s not just one, and it’s not set in stone. It’s just a special werewolf form of attraction.”

“You guys know that’s really creepy, right?” Clint asks, because he’s not sure how to feel about that. There’s relief, that he hasn’t tied Bucky into something without knowing it, but at the same time a part of him feels a little disappointed, like he lost something that he didn’t really know he wanted. But that’s stupid.

“Oh yeah, I am fully aware,” Sam says. “Werewolves are weird. I don’t know what else to tell you. But they’re good people. Don’t let Steve scare you off.”

“You think I should stay.”

“You’re telling me you could honestly walk out that door right now?” Sam asks, raising one eyebrow in challenge. “I‘ve seen how you look at Barnes’ ass.”

“You’re kind of a dick,” Clint says, but he doesn’t argue the point.

“We’re good people with very few personal boundaries,” Sam says. “You get used to it.”

Clint thinks he could. The carnival hadn’t had many personal boundaries. Difficult to keep your private life private when you shared a caravan with two other guys and the walls were as thin as paper. Timely has a little more privacy than that.

“Am I even allowed to leave?” Clint asks.

“Why wouldn’t you be?” Sam asks, looking genuinely surprised by the question. “There’s nothing stopping you.”

“Natasha’s on the prowl outside - unless that’s a different fox. I thought maybe she was…”

“You thought she was here to stop you getting out?” Sam asks, rearing back with no small amount of horror. “Steve really didn’t explain things well, did he?”

“I… guess not?” Clint says slowly. If she’s not here to keep an eye on him, what is she here for?

“Your… the carnival left. Took their people and went. Steve had some stern words with them about some things. They probably won’t be back, but we all thought that it might be better to have someone here to look out for you. Just in case.”

“She’s there to… protect me?” Clint asks, he looks out of the window, but there’s no sight of Natasha now. He imagines that in autumn she must be practically invisible.

“Yeah, I thought you knew. Nat and I, and some of the other people in the town, we’ve been taking shifts to make sure none of those guys come back.”

“Other people?” Clint asks. “There…”

“You’ve got a lot more friends than you think, Clint,” Sam says. “Although you’re going to have to buy half the town a drink for lying to us all.”

Clint nods. It seems too easy, like someone’s waiting in the wings to punish him for daring to hope. But whenever he thinks the other shoe is about to drop, nothing happens.

“Anyway, thanks for the coffee,” Sam says. “But it’s my turn to take over protection detail.” He grins. “You don’t mind keeping an eye on my things, do you?” He asks, heading for the door. As Clint watches, he’s peeling out of his shirt. Yep, Clint’s going to have to get used to the nudity.

The only times Clint’s actually watched the transformation, it was Bucky, bloody and falling into the mud, shifting back from wolf to man while Clint shouted and struggled to reach him, and then again with the cage around him, watching the change overtake Bucky by force, his bones jerking and splitting apart, contorting, his face screwed up in pain as he howled to the sky.

This is nothing like either of those times. As he watches, Sam goes from man to bird, smooth and sleek, like the best special effects, and then a bird of prey is perching on the porch to Bucky’s cabin, tilting its head - his head - at Clint in a way that Clint understands as amusement.

“Ok, fine. That’s cool,” he admits. “But I still like Bucky best.”

There is a bark from the woods and a caw from Sam and Clint knows he’s blushing as he realises what he just said. Not like he doesn’t know that everyone else knows already, but saying it out loud like that. Like it’s just another fact. That’s weird.

Sam soars off, screeching again, and Clint watches him go. He wonders what it would be like to fly like that. He’s always loved being high up, seeing things from a bird’s eye view, so to speak. There’s a little part of his head that whispers maybe… one day but he pushes it away. His life is too complicated already without adding shapeshifting into it. He’s got enough change on his hands for now. 

He can feel his hands itching again. He needs to steady himself, to rediscover his balance.

A glance downwards leaves a smile on his face. He knows exactly what he wants to do.

*

This had seemed like a good idea, at the time, but Clint hadn’t factored on the history.

Holding his bow in his hands feels weirdly like a betrayal. This is the bow the carnival gave him. This is the bow that Trickshot taught him on. This is the bow that he used to work for Jacques. It sits in his hand all unassuming, but it feels heavier.

He nocks an arrow, draws it back, but something’s off. It feels wrong, like he’s holding it too tight, or the bow is off balance. He can’t work out what it is. The arrow falls off the bow. His shoulder’s in the wrong place. Everything is wrong.

He can’t even do this right.

There is a movement to his right and he swings round, an arrow ready to fly automatically, but it is Bucky, sitting there in the trees, huge dark shape watching him, just watching him.

“Hi,” Clint says, lowering the arrow quickly. “Sorry, I’m a bit jumpy.”

Bucky whuffs out his agreement, still watching as Clint stands there, looking a bit pathetic. Bucky slowly walks over to him and pokes at his hand, pushing it up.

Right. He came here for a reason. The warm weight of Bucky pressing up against his leg steadies him a bit more, but he’s not going to examine that too closely.

He nocks the arrow and raises his bow again, but he can’t remember what he does. He can’t remember how he breathes when he does this. He’s been doing it so long it’s instinct, but it’s all futzed up in his head. His fingers don’t feel right, too bent or too straight or-

Bucky nudges his leg, like he’s telling him to get on with it. Clint just pulls back and releases.

Thunk. The arrow lands in the tree.

Clint is aware his heart is racing, his palms are sweating. He feels like he’s just run a marathon.

He aims another arrow.

The breathing is easier this time, the shaking in his hands has calmed.

Thunk.

HIs aim is off. Not by much, not enough for anyone to notice, given that he’s shooting at trees, not targets, not quarters that someone’s flicking up in the air, but it’s enough for him to notice. Enough for the frustration to rise.

There is a strange change in the air against his back, the warm weight leaves his leg and then there’s a voice in his ear.

“Relax, breathe,” Bucky’s voice says, right against his earlobe, and Clint’s shudder is full bodied. “You’ve got this, Hawkeye.”

His hand on the bow is too tight, he’s gripping it, white knuckled, when it needs to just rest there. He consciously loosens it.

“Breathe in,” Bucky says. Clint knows he’s naked behind him, sort of wants to look, but there’s a strange sense of magic like this, where he can’t see him, just feels him, warm and steady, hears his voice. “And out… in… out…” the world fucking falls away, just the two of them and his breath rushing in and out of his lungs. “Good. That’s good. Now relax your shoulders.”

Bucky’s arm wraps around Clint’s waist, his hand spreading out across Clint’s stomach, a blaze of heat.

“Take your time. You know how this works. This is part of you. Just like the change is part of me. You can’t force it.”

Clint wonders how Bucky knows that, how he has crawled inside Clint’s brain and read the thoughts that even Clint doesn’t realise he has.

He lets the arrow fly.

Thunk.

Right where he wanted it.

“You want to go again?” Bucky asks. Clint nods. He knows he’s standing on his own two feet, but it feels like Bucky’s holding him up.

He shoots again and again and again, and the frustration is gone, leached out of him into each arrow as it flies away.

The satisfying thunk thunk thunk as they hit true.

His breathing is steady, his core rock hard, something shifts inside him and everything fits right again.

He runs out of arrows and he just stands there, still breathing with Bucky, feeling their chests expand together, feeling Bucky’s breath against his neck, tickling there. Thinking about bites and wolves and stability.

“Thanks,” he says. Bucky’s hand tightens a little and for a second Clint thinks it’s going to dip lower, to where he’s definitely sporting an erection, but it doesn’t. It slips away. Bucky slips away.

“You’re welcome,” Bucky says. But when Clint turns around, there’s just a fluffy black tail disappearing into the woods.

“One day you’re going to have to finish what you’ve started,” he says to the trees, he imagines that he might hear a whine from somewhere out there, but it could have been anything.

*

The same pattern happens the next day. Clint gets up, Bucky gives him coffee and they have a short, awkward conversation, until Clint spills coffee down himself and desperately tries to clean it off, at which point the pipes decide to protest by splattering him with a fountain of water. When he goes to grab a towel Bucky takes off again, leaving Clint high and not especially dry.

*

Bucky’s becoming overly acquainted with the woods outside his house. He swears that he sees Sharon, who’s on Clint guard duty for the day, laughing at him as he runs out again, but he ignores her.

The problem is… well the problem is that he’s thrown himself at Clint twice and been rebuffed both times, and Clint hasn’t crossed that line the other way. The guy just lost his family, his home, his brother, his way of life, all in one fell swoop. He doesn’t need a horny werewolf humping his leg at all hours of the day and night.

So Bucky’s being a gentleman, like his ma would want. He can practically hear her voice in his head telling him to ‘give the poor young man a chance to catch his breath before you take it away, James’.

And the only way he can be sure of that right now, is to give himself some breathing room as well. So when Clint’s standing there, half soaked, pulling his shirt off to wash it in the sink, his muscles glistening with water, making the wordless noises that seem to be all he can manage before his second cup of coffee, Bucky books it.

Then, yesterday Clint had followed him - well, not really. He’d come out to practise his archery, and Bucky hadn’t quite managed to resist the lure, hovering in the shadows until it became clear that Clint was not okay. So he’d stepped in, tried to calm him down, keep the anxiety from taking over. Bucky’s been there, he knows ways to cope, and he couldn’t just watch.

So he’d stepped in.

Then he’d had to shift, so he could talk Clint through it - the wolf not as good for direct communication - and he’d been able to feel Clint’s stomach muscles, rock hard under his hand, and the scent of him had just been everywhere, losing the sharp taint of anxiety and becoming clean, fresh and…

And Bucky had been about a hair’s breadth away from taking advantage of his confusion and his anxiety right then and there. He feels a little out of control again, like the traces of the drug are still in his system, although Bruce assures him that they’re not. And Bruce should know.

But he’s determined that he’s not going to push. He’s not going to take. If Clint wants to keep his own space, Bucky’s going to let him sort everything out in his head. He’s going to let him take his time. Clint’s not a werewolf, he doesn’t have the same instincts, doesn’t see Bucky as his mate, because humans don’t see the world like that, or smell the world like that.

So Bucky’s going to wait, even if it does mean Clint fixes half of his house.

He waits until it’s gone midnight before he slopes back to the house. Natasha is sitting primly on the bottom step leading up to the door, watching him. Bucky ignores her.

There’s a light on in the living room, but he can hear the deep, even breathing of Clint sleeping, so he steps through the door quietly and shifts as he heads towards the stairs.

He’s almost reached the bottom step when the thick scent of arousal hits him, a sharp spike, and he freezes, the smell sinking into his nostrils.

His ears pick up the sudden increase of heart beat, his own and…

Bucky turns where he stands to see Clint, obviously half asleep, sitting in the armchair, an old book open on his lap, blinking at him, his eyes staring at something a hell of a lot lower than Bucky’s chest. The arousal spikes again and Bucky almost groans at the scent of it. He wants to roll in it, cover himself in it. Wants to spread Clint out and take him apart piece by piece, find all the ways to keep that scent around for as long as possible, find all the things that he can do to make Clint’s heart speed up. He wants to taste, to touch, to revel in it all.

The growl deep in his chest, he can’t control, and he takes a step forwards, aware that his want must be showing all over his face. He struggles to hold himself back.

Clint’s staring right back at him, want just as clear in his own features as it must be in Bucky’s, and that’s almost enough of an invitation, right there. But Bucky needs to ask.

“Why are you still here?” His voice comes out almost more wolf than human.

“Where else would I be?” Clint asks, his arousal dimmed with confusion, like Bucky’s question makes no sense.

It’s not the answer Bucky’s looking for, he almost whines at it, because he doesn’t want to be the place Clint stays because he has nowhere else. He doesn’t want to be the backup or the default. He wants to be chosen. For once chosen for something good.

“Back to the guest house,” Bucky says. “Out of town. Somewhere normal.” Clint just squints at him, the confusion growing stronger.

“But you’re here,” Clint says.

There is a rush in Bucky’s ears that almost drowns out the world, at that. Those words. Because that is the choice, that is the decision that Bucky wants him to make, but it sounds like he’s made it already.

He walks forward, prowling like he would when he hunts in wolf-shape, every step is silent and sure and with purpose.

“Tell me you want this,” he says, the words squeezing out of him. Tell me you want me, he does not say, but the meaning is clear. The scent of Clint’s arousal is back, flooding Bucky’s nose, feeding his own arousal in turn until the scents are merged together, one and the same. He can see the bob of Clint’s throat as he swallows, and Bucky wonders if Clint’s mouth is dry, because Bucky is practically drooling at the thought of him.

He crouches down, between Clint’s legs, not touching, not willing to cross that line without the firmest response. Clint’s mouth has fallen open a little, his tongue darting out across his lips. Bucky drags his gaze away and back up to Clint’s eyes, blown wide with lust and staring at Bucky like he’s some sort of revelation, not a broken freak.

Clint’s hand rises, slowly, gently, like he’s always been with Bucky, and he carefully pushes a lock of Bucky’s hair out of his eyes and behind his ear, fingertips barely touching Bucky’s skin, but leaving sparking trails across it all the same.

“Do you want this?” Bucky asks, damning himself for phrasing it like a demand last time. This is not a demand, it is a request, a plea. He feels like every nerve in his body is raw. Like he’s completely bare - and not just physically. His instincts are clawing at his brain that this is his mate, this man is his.

But that’s not true. Clint is his own, and he has not said-

“Fuck yes,” Clint breathes, his voice as hoarse as Bucky’s own. Bucky barely lets the words escape before he’s surging forwards, capturing, consuming them, reaching up to pull Clint towards him.

He feels the rough denim of Clint’s jeans against his back as Clint’s legs hook around him, and he hoists him closer until he can feel the heat of Clint’s arousal through the fly of his jeans, pushing into Bucky’s stomach. But Bucky can’t tear himself away from his mouth.

It would be so easy to roll them down on the floor, onto the rug, but something in him rebels at the idea. Something says he has to do this properly. Hopefully, there will be time for rug sex and kitchen sex and up-against-the-wall sex, where they’re both so eager for it they can’t get any further, later. Later. He will store up all those ideas and bring them out later. Right now, this time. This time he’s going to do it properly.

He pulls back from Clint’s mouth to look him in the eye, Clint looks back, half-wrecked and all sex.

“Hold on,” Bucky tells him, the rumble of his voice making Clint moan slightly and buck against him.

He needs Clint tipped back into his bed, grinning up at him, can imagine it so clearly.

It’s awkward to hold Clint up one armed, when there is so much he wants to touch, but his hand grasps at Clint’s ass to hoist him up as Bucky stands, kneading at the muscles there, wishing that it was just flesh against flesh, but one thing at a time. First he has to get them up the stairs.

“Fuck this is hot,” Clint says. “Never thought I would go for the manhandling - wolfhandling? - but handle away.” His mouth curves up and Bucky leans forwards to taste the smile, almost tipping them over until Clint flails one hand out to grab the bannister. As he pulls back, Clint’s grin is lazy and slow, full of promise. “Yeah, you can handle me any day.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” Bucky promises, kissing at Clint’s neck, not biting, not yet, but maybe one day, just tasting the sweat that’s already pooling there in the sticky summer night.

He has to pull back to make it up the stairs; they stumble upwards drunkenly, adjusting for each other’s overbalancing, until they make it to the landing. And Bucky realises that he can’t open the fucking door. He pulls back again, gritting his teeth around a frustrated growl and considers just breaking it down, but Clint’s hands find their way to his face.

“What’s up? Talk to me,” he says. “If you’re not… I mean, I get if you’re having second thoughts, I’m not exact-”

“You’re perfect,” Bucky tells him. “I just don’t have enough hands.” He nods towards the door and Clint looks over his shoulder at the stubborn wood that is refusing to listen to Bucky’s mental commands, and he laughs.

“Gottit!” he says, smiling again.

He almost doesn’t ‘gottit’ because he twists in a dangerous, but weirdly erotic way that simultaneously displays his flexibility and also grinds his ass down right on Bucky’s erection, making him whine with need.

“Need you in my bed,” Bucky says, unable to keep his thoughts inside. “Surrounded by me, gonna smell like me. Everyone’s going to smell me on you.” Clint twists back, looking at him.

“Is that a thing for you?” he asks. “Like a you thing, or a wolf thing?”

“Me thing, wolf thing, same thing,” Bucky says. He mouths mine into the skin of Clint’s throat. “Is that gonna be a problem?” he asks out loud.

Clint pauses.

“No, I… think I kind of like it,” he says, sounding a little surprised. “It’s kind of hot.”

“You’re hot.”

Clint finally manages the door handle and it springs open, swinging backwards so that Clint almost tumbles in until Bucky tenses, straining his muscles to keep them both upright. There’s not far now, just a few more feet.

Clint gets a wicked look in his eye, like he’s got a brilliant bad idea, then he leans his face in real close, mouth right up to Bucky’s ear, teeth pulling on his earlobe slightly before he whispers, in a truly wicked voice. “Yours.” He says, more of a breath than a word, but it short-circuits Bucky’s entire system. There is fire running through him and he’s moving, striding forwards, tipping Clint back onto the bed - laughing, the bastard - and crawling over the top of him to press himself against him, rocking his hips down mercilessly, leaving messy lines of precome over the front of Clint’s shirt.

Clint is grinning up, delighted.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his voice smug. “That works.”

Bucky glares down at him, but the rolling of his hips probably reduces the effect.

Clint is still far too dressed. There isn’t enough skin for Bucky to touch, and he needs to touch it all, to lay claim to every single inch of it. He hooks his fingers under the hem of Clint’s t-shirt and tugs it up, tossing it to one side as soon as it comes off.

The jeans come off next and then the underwear, and finally, it’s exactly what he wanted. Clint, naked, hard and smiling up at him from Bucky’s bed, completely surrounded by his scent. Bucky’s hand goes down to wrap around his cock, and he groans with relief at the sensation.

Part of him just wants to do that, jerk off until Clint’s chest is dripping with his come, marking him, but he wants to touch Clint. Wants Clint to touch him. There is not enough time in one night to do all the things he wants to do. But first, he wants to take the smug look off Clint’s face. He wants to make his head tilt back, make him gasp and squirm and beg.

“Stay right there,” he says, his voice less than commanding, a bit too breathless, a bit too pleading.

“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere,” Clint tells him.

“Good,” Bucky smiles back at him, tries to put his intentions into it, so that Clint can see exactly what Bucky’s thinking in the curve of his lips. The smile dips a bit as Clint swallows, so Bucky thinks he’s made his point.

He finds the drawer in the bedside table, grabs the condoms and the lube and clambers back onto the bed, unable to resist running one hand down the lines of Clint’s body, from his elbow, caught behind his head, down the planes of his chest, his abs, which twitch under Bucky’s hand and down to his cock, standing tall and red and leaking. He wraps his hand around it, pumps once, twice, admiring the way Clint’s whole body bows into it, the way his eyes flutter shut and his mouth falls open on a needy little gasp.

“Wanna watch you like this,” Bucky says. “Could watch you all day.” Clint’s eyes open and look up at him, but the confidence in the gaze is brittle.

“I do put on a good show,” Clint says.

“I’m not here for the show,” Bucky says. “I want to see you. Just you. No mask, no act, just you.”

“Fuck, Bucky…” Clint’s voice is shaky and Bucky strokes one finger down his erection, watching it jump and the shiver of arousal that passes through Clint’s entire body. “You… Don’t say shit like that.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, feigning innocence as he swings his leg over Clint’s thighs so he’s sitting on them, and takes a moment to tear the condom wrapper open with his teeth. “Like how fucking beautiful you are like this, when you’re not pretending to be anything but you? How I want to see you like this always? Hold still.” He can see the strain in Clint’s muscles as he struggles not to buck his hips up as Bucky slowly rolls the condom down. “You don’t have to hide anymore,” he says.

It’s too far, too intimate, but Clint’s eyes fly wide open and he’s looking at Bucky with his face soft and vulnerable as Bucky pushes up, then leans down to slide his mouth down Clint’s erection, taking as much of it in his mouth as he can manage. It’s been a while, but he doesn’t embarrass himself.

One of Clint’s hands comes to wind into his hair, firm and secure, holding on like he’s scared Bucky’s going to suddenly disappear. And, as Bucky pulls back, undulating his tongue as he goes, he hears Clint gasping his name, tensing and relaxing. Bucky blows gently across the wet latex and Clint bucks up again, his bobbing erection pushing into the soft part of Bucky’s cheek.

“So eager for this.”

“I’ve been waiting,” Clint says. “You didn’t make a move.”

“And here was me thinking it was your turn,” Bucky replies.

“Could have been doing this days ago,” Clint says, giving him a half-hearted glare. The flush in his cheeks makes the blue of his eyes electric. Bucky has to duck his head down and suck at his cock again, as some kind of thank you for looking so good. “Thought you would do it yesterday. Standing right behind me, buck naked,”

“Should have done,” Bucky agrees, pulling off only to dive back down again. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed this, the feeling of power he gets having Clint in his mouth, squirming and pleading for him. The way it feels to wrap his lips around the girth of him. There’s something there that burns deep in the pit of his stomach, a smouldering arousal that’s not desperate, but yearning.

He presses his hand against his own dick and moans around Clint’s flesh, startling curses from him. 

He wants to take his time, but he doesn’t have the patience. He pulls off again, crawls up the bed to lean on his side, lips brushing against Clint’s shoulder.

“Would you have liked that?” he asks, low, his voice bruised with lust at the idea of it all. “Would you have liked it if I’d just wrapped my hand around you right there and jerked you off? In the middle of the woods, where anyone could see? Would you have enjoyed that? The whole world seeing you beg for me? Seeing how you’re mine?”

“Yes,” Clint says, the word more gasp than noise, pushing up into Bucky’s hand as it wraps around him again. “But not as much as you would have done.” He gets that look in his eyes again and then they’re rolling over and Clint’s curled over the top of him. Bucky can feel his heartbeat, hear as it races, and Clint is all around him, surrounding him, in the air he’s breathing. He closes his eyes and just breathes him in.

The hot swipe of a tongue over his nipple comes as a surprise, but not an unwelcome one. He cries out, pushes his chest up into the sensation shamelessly, but the heat moves away.

“This whole nudity thing,” Clint says, moving across to the other side of Bucky’s chest. “I approve.”

“Glad to see you embracing our culture,” Bucky tells him. Clint grins and fastens his mouth over the second nipple, biting down slightly in a way that goes right to Bucky’s dick. He can’t stop the whine that emerges from his mouth, even as he feels Clint smiling against his skin.

“My turn,” Clint says. He’s rubbing his erection across Bucky’s thigh, slow and lazy, as he moves back up to Bucky’s face. He props himself on one arm, then reaches down to take Bucky in hand. Bucky’s head falls backwards, his body arching up at the sensation. Clint’s grip is firm and sure, moving with confidence, like they’ve done this a dozen times, rubbing his thumb over the head of Bucky’s cock, then stroking down and pulling up with a twist that has Bucky panting and gasping for more.

Clint’s movements against his thigh are growing faster, and when Bucky opens his eye, there Clint is, looking right back at him, leaning in to kiss him and kiss him, sloppy and desperate and eager.

While he’s distracted, Bucky tips them over again, pushing down into Clint’s hand with every stroke, muttering words of encouragement into the air, even as Clint whispers them right back. Bucky angles his leg right between Clint’s giving him something to grind against, then his hand joins Clint’s on his own erection.

“Come on, come for me,” he says. “Let me see you.”

Clint makes a choking sound, looking up at him, seemingly bewildered about how they switched places again.

“Bet you’re gorgeous when you let go,” Bucky tells him, nipping at his jaw line, tasting the sweat glistening on Clint’s skin. He tenses his core and draws himself back up without letting up on the slow movement of his hand on Clint’s. He looks right into Clint’s eyes, bright blue, wide and totally open to him. Everything in him is focused on the man beneath him in this moment. He can hear the hitches of his breath, and beneath that, the rapid thump-thump of his heartbeat. Clint’s scent is everywhere, the taste of Clint’s skin is still in his mouth. They are pressed right up against each other, every inch of contact filled with Clint’s body heat. Every sense is full of him. Bucky looks right into his eyes, can’t miss a second of him, then says, growls almost, “Come for me.”

With a cry, Clint does, stiffening, and Bucky watches the aftershocks shudder through him, his head turning from side to side. His hands drop back onto the sheets, clutching at them and Bucky can’t help it, one, two more strokes and he’s tipped over the edge himself, the rush of orgasm burning through him as he comes all over Clint’s chest and collapses beside him, heaving a breath.

He looks over at Clint, at the evidence of him all over his skin, and he feels settled, at peace with everything. His mate, marked and scented, naked in his bed. Everything feels right with the world.

“Next time I get to suck you off,” Clint says, his voice a slow, sleepy drawl.

“Next time I want you inside me,” Bucky says, imagining that, seating himself on Clint’s cock, riding him slowly. It’s almost enough to make him hard again, and his dick gives a valiant effort as Clint turns to look at him, a slow pleased smile on his face.

“Aw yeah. That. Let’s do that,” he says.

“Tomorrow,” Bucky tells him, before summoning the effort to pull himself out of bed and away from the lazy, soft-eyed, well-fucked man lying next to him. But someone has to clean them up, and it is Bucky’s house.

Clint’s almost asleep by the time he comes back with the cloth, giggles a bit as Bucky wipes at his skin.

“Tickles,” he mutters, before looking down. “Shame. Kind of liked you marking me up like that.”

Bucky’s growl is involuntary, just at the idea of it, and Clint grins, like he knew exactly what he was doing when he said that. And he did. He’s going to be insufferable.

Bucky throws the cloth away and leans down to kiss that stupid smug mouth. It’s a slow, lax sort of kiss, easing into each other, sleepy and relaxed. A post-coital kiss. Bucky knows he’s growling into it a bit, notices when Clint’s slack hand comes up to pat at his head, stroking his hair slightly.

“S’okay. B’th know’m y’rs and y’r mine. No’ goin’ anywhere,” he says, pulling away for a second. His words are slurred, but clear enough for Bucky to hear and enough to soothe his possessiveness. Belonging to each other. Yes. That feels right.

He wraps the covers around them, wraps his arm around Clint and rests his head against his shoulder, so his nose is in the crook of his neck, and he falls asleep surrounded by their combined scents and body heat.

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be just pure porn, but then the characters started talking to each other. *sigh* Next thing you know there's almost 12000 words and less than a quarter of it is actual sex.


End file.
